Sam was careful as he opened the old notebook he had found amongst the Men of Letters files in one of their many storage rooms. The shoe box in which it had been stored was labelled unhelpfully with a string of letters and numbers, just one of the many he'd been looking through.

The book was similar to Dad's journal, but battered and worn. The inside front cover had an envelope glued to it, with a oval shaped metal tag inside. On the facing side it read ROCHE, Guillaume – 1915. The reverse read REIMS 382. Sam left that where it was and turned a page. The pages were torn and curled in places as if they had gotten wet and then dried off, and grey and rust-brown stains obscured parts of the writing, which was written with an unsteady hand. Sam sat on the floor and leaned back against the wall, and started to read.

Marie, cherie.

I write in English lest my words fall into the wrong hands. I know you will understand them. I hope that I can return with this notebook in person, but I fear it may not be possible.

As I write, the air is filled with the sound of shells and guns, persistent and staccato like a never ending drum roll. They whistle and roar and scream, and no sooner has one struck a target than another hits, and another, and still another. When the attack started we counted them, but not even a minute passed before we could not separate one from another, nor even hear ourselves count aloud. It has been that way now for days, with only brief intervals of respite. Even then we cannot escape the sound of drumfire, as our ears continuously ring with the echoes of the explosions.

Many have died. We cannot bury our dead. Even if the artillery stopped, retrieving the bodies is too dangerous. In many cases, there is little left to bury, and even if we were able to, the earth is relentlessly churned up again and again. I say this not to scare or horrify you, for I know your constitution and courage are much more formidable than that, ma guerrière, but to ease the burden on my mind through writing.

I know that you wished I would not come here, and I am sorry for the hurt that caused you, but Philippe was right. The horror of war masks the other horror that exists here, but if unchecked it may overshadow even this. Do you remember when we hunted in Aubagne? I fear it is happenin…

Sam frowned a little as he reached the end of the interrupted sentence. The page was stained below it, with what was unmistakenly old, dried blood, and whatever words had been written there had been lost. He turned the page carefully, and was surprised to find a careful drawing of a pocket watch on the next page. Instead of numbers on the face of the watch, there were symbols that struck a chord in his memory. He closed the book, and groped inside the box. His fingers closed around an oilcloth drawstring pouch, and he pulled it out.

"Dean?" he called. "Come look at this."

Carefully opening the pouch, he tipped it upside down, and a polished silver pocket watch slid out onto his hand. The front of the case was filigree, and on the back the inscription, Tempus Fugit, was etched. Sam grinned to himself. Time flies. Turning the watch back over, he pressed the button on top of the watch to open the case. The glass cover popped open.

When Dean walked into the room, all he found was an empty shoe box, a battered old journal, and a silver pocket watch lying haphazardly on the floor, the casing open.

"Sam?" he frowned.

The noise was unbearable, deafening. Explosions sounded all around Sam, and the ground vibrated. He was lying on his front on wet and muddy ground, water seeping into his clothes. Frantic shouts accompanied the heavy sounds of movement through mud. Someone stood on his hand, and he yelled a confused protest.

A man shouted at him in reply. "Êtes-vous fou? Allez!" He was hauled to his feet and propelled towards a slope. He stumbled and slipped, and found himself rolling down it, into a trench. He landed heavily, half submerged in foul water, and staggered to his feet with difficulty, winded. "What the hell..?!"